


Goodbye, My Hopeless Dream

by Scriptserpent



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Death, M/M, Major Character Injury, The Man From U.N.C.L.E. Winter Holiday Gift Exchange 2016
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-19
Updated: 2016-12-19
Packaged: 2018-09-09 17:29:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8902765
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scriptserpent/pseuds/Scriptserpent
Summary: He should be turning over how they’re going to infiltrate the factory tonight; where the points of entry are and things like that. He should be looking at the sheet of guard movements Illya has scratched out. 
Instead, like dice in a cup, thoughts of a thin moon and warm brandy and soft lips are rattling about.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sweety_Mutant](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sweety_Mutant/gifts).



> _"Goodbye, my almost lover_
> 
> _Goodbye, my hopeless dream_
> 
> _I'm trying not to think about you_
> 
> _Almost Lover _by A Fine Frenzy__
> 
> Happy holidays Sweet_Mutant, I hope you like the story :)

It’s the acrid scent of burning fish that startles Napoleon out of his thoughts. He lifts the pan off the fire and looks at the charcoal mess dried up in the bottom of the skillet. Pity. It had been swordfish too. Napoleon scrapes the unsalvageable food into the garbage and puts the pan into the sink before opening the windows wide. Humid city air crawls in with the hum of passing vehicles and the squawking of car horns. He stops at the counter and pours brandy into a glass before leaning against the doorframe and looks across the rooftops of Lisbon. Liquid lunch, then.

They’ve been in the city for six days, tracking down a missing professor who had been working on vaccinia virus research and had disappeared from their home in Wales seven months ago. The search has finally narrowed down to a defunct caning factory that sits near the water. That’s really where his mind should be. He should be turning over how they’re going to infiltrate the factory tonight; where the points of entry are and things like that. He should be looking at the sheet of guard movements Illya has scratched out.

Instead, like dice in a cup, thoughts of a thin moon and warm brandy and soft lips are rattling about.

Footsteps fall in behind him but Napoleon doesn’t turn around. He knows who it is from the staccato of heels against the tile floor. The kitchen chair scrapes loudly and he sees Gaby fall into it out of the corner of his eye. She’s dabbing at her makeup with a napkin and sits in front of the fan perched on the table, undoing the top button of her blouse and leans into the cool air. “Hot out?” he asks with a grin.

“It’s awful,” she says and perches her shopping bag on the empty chair next to her. “Did you burn something?” The paper bag crinkles as it settles and Napoleon closes the windows. The hum of the electric fan fills the room and he settles in the other open chair, pushing his shirtsleeves up, and taking another sip of the brandy.

“An unfortunate piece of fish that was supposed to be lunch,” he admits.

“Where’s Illya?” Gaby takes an orange from the bowl on the kitchen table.

“I don’t know.” He doesn’t really want to know either right now.

Gaby stops peeling the orange and studies him. Napoleon gazes back amiably. “Did something happen in Oslo? You two have been, well, off frankly ever since then.”

Napoleon takes a wedge of her peeled orange instead of answering and stands up. He turns to the small refrigerator in the rented house and pulls out some cheese they bought earlier in the week. “Peril and I? Off? Whatever could you mean?” He knows his smile is knife sharp, but he can't help it.

Gaby stays silent and takes the last of his brandy in retaliation. She downs it in one smooth gulp and sets the tumbler onto the table with a heavy clatter. Napoleon takes a cutting board out and begins to slice up the cheese with some seeded bread he’d found earlier that morning while watching one of their targets.

“Fine,” she says and snags away some of the cut bread and cheese, “I’m going to work on that radio for a while. I’ll be in the backroom.” She tinkers now in the still moments of their missions, improving receivers and radios and trackers. She still maintenances cars when she can and he loves her for that. It’s grounding.

He refills the glass Gaby emptied and Napoleon moves to the small living room of the house. The wood floors creak with the humidity and blue curtains drift lazily moved by the invisible fingers of the wind. The front door opens and Illya passes through the hallway, stopping when he catches sight of Napoleon sitting in the armchair. He raises his drink in a mock salute. Illya scowls.

“Back so soon?” Napoleon asks.

“They changed the time of the meeting. We have to be there earlier.” Illya’s jaw tenses in annoyance. His glacier eyes flicker to the golden drink in his hand and Napoleon takes a sip.

“Don’t worry about me,” he says, knowing what Illya is about to say. They’ve gone through this conversation before and it always ends the same. _How about a drink? I don’t drink. Well, I’ll still have a drink._ Really, it’s so predictable Napoleon finds it easier to just cut him off.

“The meeting changed?” Gaby says, coming out from the back of the hall while tying her hair up in a yellow kerchief. 

Illya turns to her and nods. He puts his bag with surveillance equipment down. “Time and location.”

Napoleon curses into his glass and looks out the window. So much for studying the factory layout. Not that he really was. It was the thought that counted, really.

“Why?” She asks and perches on the back of the couch like a finch.

Illya shakes his head. “I do not know.”

“They must have been spooked by something,” Gaby says slowly and presses her lips in thought. Napoleon watches Illya from the corner of his eye. He’s all hard lines and angles, and when he’s tense. He looks like a wolf. A thought of putting his hand out and jaws snapping at him passes through his mind. 

“So what’s the plan?” Napoleon finally asks.

“The meeting is at midnight.”

“Ah, always a good time. It’s never something like 10:30, is it?”

“At the docks, they will have professor Jones there as well,” Illya continues to Gaby, ignoring the other man.

“Not much cover at the docks,” Napoleon mutters.

“No,” Illya agrees and turns to Napoleon. They stare at each other and the unnerved energy that followed them from that night in Oslo seems suffocating. Illya takes his bag off the ground and walks out without another word.

“Well,” she says.

_Well_ , Napoleon agrees and downs the rest of the brandy.

***

Night falls quickly with ribbons of blue clouds threaded through a whiskey gold sky. The ocean air clings to everything with humid suffocation. When the black milk of night finally drowns the world, there’s nothing but the stars and the distant lights of Lisbon as Napoleon crouches behind a doorway of a building that overlooks the docks. Illya is behind him, hidden in shadow as they wait and watch. They haven’t spoken. The thing is– Napoleon wants to. He wants to talk because not talking about that night in Oslo is slowly driving him insane and things haven’t been right between them. And yet.

Well. He doesn’t want to talk either. There’s a relief there under his skin that's ecstatic that he doesn’t have to air any feelings– because who wants to do that, really. There’s no chance for a misstep. To make things worse. Right now things are locked. But he’s a thief and unlocking things is his specialty.

“I have to say, Peril,” Napoleon finally whispers as the docks stay quiet, “I’ve heard of Kiss And Tell plenty of times, but Kiss And Not Talk About It is definitely the less interesting of the two.”

He can feel more than see Illya’s silhouette startle at the sudden conversation. The solid weight of the mass of muscle of the other man hovers dangerously close behind him. Napoleon keeps his eyes on the dark water in the distance.

“What is there to talk about?” Illya finally says in a harsh whisper.

Napoleon turns away from the docks, eyes narrowed at Illya. The sliver of moonlight that fell into the building strikes Illya’s face as he moves closer, and then threads back into the darkness as he settles at the other side of the doorway. The light glints in his eyes as he looks at Napoleon.

“Really?” Napoleon asks affronted. “What is there to–”

“Boat,” Illya interrupts.

And indeed there is a dark gray shape gliding across the water towards them. At the other side of the docks, a car with its lights turned off rolls quietly towards them. Both dart further into the building, staying far away from the windows as the car drives past and parks at the end of the docks. Napoleon takes out his gun, feels the reassuring weight of it in his hand. He turns to see Illya has done the same, blue eyes trained on the docks. The time for talking is over.

They watch as three men get out of the car as the boat docks and four men descend from the small fishing vessel. Gaby’s voice crackles to life in the receiver in Napoleon’s ear.

“Professor isn’t there.”

Illya looks to Napoleon, the same flash of confusion crossing his face as well. They wait in silence for a moment. Gaby is the one perched at the top of a hill overlooking the docks with the surveillance equipment, relaying information to them as she stays with a rifle and their transportation.

“Christopher Wright is there, he says that the professor committed suicide.” Wright is the one who has orchestrated this whole thing. Napoleon watches as two of the men step closer and look into the car. “Boys,” her voice crackles to life. “Change of plans.”

Illya pressed the radio in his jacket. “What do you mean?” he whispers.

Napoleon keeps his eyes on the men in the distance and levels his gun.

“They weaponized Jones’ research. They’re selling aerosol canisters stacked in the car.”

“Well,” Napoleon says, “isn’t this Rome all over again.”

“We remember Rome differently,” Illya mutters back. 

Illya takes the lead, pulling them through the shadow of the building, as they get closer to the group. The salt air presses against his face as the wind picks up, and the cloud coverage shifts. Apparently it’s enough to give them away as a bullet ricochets against a metal door near Napoleon’s head, sending sparks up into the air.

They scatter. Napoleon takes cover behind a stack of crates near the building’s exterior and shoots as Illya lunges for cover behind a shipping container. Napoleon turns the corner of the crate, shoots twice. He takes down one man close to the car in the chest and clips the other in the shoulder. Another man goes down near the boat as Illya shoots. The others have scattered and when Wright tries to lunge, Napoleon shoots. He misses, but Wright takes cover behind the open car door, which is better than him getting into the cabin and driving away.

The boat engine guttered as it revved up. Illya was a blur of shadow as he left the corner of the shipping container and attacks one of the men coming towards them, grappling the gun away. With a deep breath, Napoleon steps out from his cover, and runs to the car to stop Wright from getting into the car. He slams into him and they both topple to the ground. Bullets fly overhead as Wright throws a punch and hits Napoleon on the jaw. He retaliates and catches Wright in the ribs and they both hit the pavement again. Wright pulls out a knife, slashing up and grazes him across the cheek. Napoleon hits him and takes his gun and shoots him in the chest. He ignores Wright’s scream and looks up to check on Illya. A bullet crashes into the car door next to his head as one of the attackers rounds the other side of the car. He crumples to the ground a second later, shot in the head and Illya steps past his body.

“Pay attention, Cowboy,” He berates and turns to go after the men fleeing to the boat.

Napoleon pushes Wright away and looks carefully into the car and the stacks of large black canisters lining the back.

“There’s another car coming down the road!” Gaby warns.

“Peril!” Napoleon yells and slides into the driver’s seat of the car, turning the car on and into gear. Illya’s in front of the car, facing off with another man who’s pulling up a gun to shoot and Napoleon turns on the brights of the car, blinding the man and giving Illya a perfect opportunity to shoot.

Illya turns back, getting into the car and hisses, “Turn off the lights!”

“Yeah, got it,” Napoleon snaps and reverses the car and guns them away from the docks.

And then Napoleon is shot. 

He hears the gun and feels the glass shatter and scratch his face before the white-hot pain registers in his chest. Air is forced from his lungs as he reels from the force and he nearly drives them into the shipping container, clips the headlights only when Illya lunges over and pulls the steering wheel. Napoleon gasps, reaches for his chest and can feel the blood hot against his fingers.

“Fuck,” he grits out. He’s hit bad. Air whistles in from the bullet hole in the windshield, the spider web of cracks catch the moonlight overhead. He keeps his foot down, accelerating them away from the docks.

“Solo’s been hit,” Illya relays to Gaby and Napoleon can hear her curse in German. She says something, but it sounds garbled to Napoleon who is focused on getting out of the docks and to the main road where he can switch with Illya and hopefully lay down. His chest is on fire and everything throbs. His mouth taste like hot copper and he wants to vomit.

Illya says something, brings him back to the real world when he grips his shoulder tightly and grabs at the steering wheel again. He hadn't realized he had been drifting, hadn’t realized Illya had been yelling at him. “Slow down!” Illya snaps and curses in Russian. Napoleon lets his foot off the gas and focuses on the dark road. He’s going to get them out of here.

“We have to get out of here before that car blocks us in,” Napoleon grits out. He presses harder on the wound and it makes stars explode in his vision, but he’s more alert. He shifts gear, speeding up around the bend to get out of the single road they could be blocked in. Blood slicked fingers turn the steering wheel and they get out of the docks. They drive around the bend, out of sight of the other car, and Napoleon more crashes into some bushes than parks out of sight. Illya is the one to slam the gear into park and Napoleon realizes he’s shaking. He slumps against the car door and nearly topples out when Illya rounds the hood, ripping the door open. He catches him, and Napoleon is looking at the stars the next time he blinks.

Illya’s hands press down hard and Napoleon curses loudly with a half bitten cry. There’s a strange sot of stillness creeping into his body and he feels cold. “Lucky shot,” he groans when Illya presses harder again after having taken off his jacket and wadded it against his wound.

“Stay awake,” Illya snaps when Napoleon tries to shut his eyes for a moment. He’s very tired. “Gaby will be here any second. You will be fine.”

“Are you mad at me about Oslo?” he asks because suddenly he wants to know. Needs to know. Illya looks panicked at the question, blue eyes wide and dark in the pearl moonlight.

“No,” he says.

Napoleon blinks slowly because the words are churning in his brain and he can’t make sense of it. He had thought it had been so good. He had come out from his bedroom, chasing away nightmares with brandy and had found Illya sitting out on the porch of the house, looking up at the night sky as the warm summer wind rolled lazily about. He had sat next to him, silent, and shared the bottle. Illya turned to him, presumably about to ask something and Napoleon had just acted and leaned in. And the kiss had been sudden, quick and lovely like a flash of lightning in a summer storm. Illya had pulled away and when Napoleon had expected yelling and talons, he was pressed down to the porch floorboards and they continued to kiss. When he had been left warm, hunger and desire deep in his belly, something had flashed across Illya’s face and he had scrambled up, muttering something Napoleon hadn’t caught and left.

And then they hadn’t spoken of it.

“It was bad idea,” Illya says, dragging him out of his memories.

“Good idea,” Napoleon counters weakly. He shuts his eyes.

“Cowboy! Stay awake… _Napoleon!_ ”

His eyes snap open at the use of his name. Damn. Things must be dire.

He’s dying, he realizes.

“Stay awake, you bastard,” Illya snaps at him.

“Illya,” Napoleon mutters, takes a bloodied palm and grips one of the wrists straining down against him, trying to keep him alive. “It’s okay.”

“No, no, don’t you dare,” Illya growls. He looks like he could walk to death and rip him apart right now. The thought makes him snort with a laugh for some reason, and it turns into an agonized cough that leaves him breathless

“Hey,” Napoleon says quietly when his breathing returns into shallow gasps. His vision is blurring and he moves his hand to touch Illya’s cheek, because he would rather be talking to the man than the empty space above.

“Don’t,” Illya starts and then leans down, kisses him with desperation that the one in Oslo hadn’t had. He tastes briefly like bitter coffee before the sour tang of blood covers it. “Do not die,” Illya orders as he parts.

“Take care of Gaby, okay,” He mutters slowly. The words are hard to form and black spots cover the world. There’s a shuttering inside him, and he knows he’s slipping into the dark waters. There’s too much blood, he knows. Illya’s hands are stained with it.

“No! Stop talking like that,” there’s a fierce string of curses in Russian that follows.

“Illya,” Napoleon murmurs. The vowels slur as his tongue grows numb and clumsy. He thinks there’s rain as he feels something wet fall across his cheek. He gasps wetly as blood coats his mouth. “We could have been great, Peril,” Napoleon says. He can see car headlights in the distance. He hopes it’s Gaby.

He shuts his eyes and he can hear Illya yelling at him, trying to get him to open his eyes. To stay awake. To take another breath. _We were great_ , Napoleon thinks and falls into the water.

His heart stops.


End file.
